The Wood Queen Read online

  About the Book

  Born into the mysterious world of an ancient alchemical order, Donna has always been aware of the dark feud that exists between the alchemists and the fey. Her own mother – bound by a dark Faerie curse – has been confined to a hospital bed for as long as she can remember … But now there is a chance to release her, and Donna will stop at nothing until she is free.

  Armed with her own brand of powerful magic, Donna must face the fearsome Wood Queen in order to save her mother. But in the Ironwood – a place that haunts Donna’s dreams – there is a far greater and more dangerous magic already at work …

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Donna Underwood’s Journal

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Appendix

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Praise for The Iron Witch

  Copyright Page

  More at Random House Australia

  For Mum, who reads everything I write but still always asks, “When will you have the next thing finished?”

  DONNA UNDERWOOD’S JOURNAL:

  The Wood Monster is dead.

  I know this is true because I killed it. And yet my dreams are still full of fear and pain, even though it is a different sort of fear and a new kind of pain.

  This morning I woke at dawn with the covers thrown off, pajamas sticking to my body and sweat-soaked hair in my eyes. My hands and arms ached and I knew that, if I looked at them, the familiar silver markings would be writhing around my wrists like living tattoos. Sometimes it feels as though my tattoos really are alive, but that’s just the magic talking. Being marked by alchemical magic messes with your head at the best of times—and right now is just about as far as I’ve ever been from the best of times.

  After I came to and switched on the light to chase away the shadows, I tried to recall what I’d been dreaming of—what nightmare had woken me this time—but the sights and sounds and twisted images were already gone. Melted away like the frost outside my bedroom window.

  If only I could remember the nightmare more clearly. I’m sure there’s something important in it—something I’m supposed to know or do. It feels like a warning, but how can I heed a warning that arrives so fleetingly and disappears just as quickly? The only memory I’m left with is of my mother sitting beneath a dying tree in an otherwise empty wasteland. Her face, half concealed behind her tangle of red hair, is white as bone. The white streak in the front of her hair is braided into a bizarre plait, and the thread that runs through it is bright green.

  And the crows; so many of them. A murder of crows? Circling around and around in an indigo sky, shedding oily feathers that look like black petals.

  Maybe I’m just having anxiety dreams ahead of the trial. Aunt Paige gets mad when I call it that—my “trial”—but isn’t that what it is? She said it’s just an “internal investigation,” nothing more than routine after something serious happens. But really, what’s the difference? Representatives from the three other Orders will pass judgment on me when the hearing begins today, and if that’s not a “trial” then I don’t know what is.

  My first thought, when I woke, was to talk to Nav about my dream; to tell him what I could remember of those fading images and ask him to help me figure it all out. But I sank back against the pillows as sharp reality hit me: Navin is hardly speaking to me. After what happened to him so recently, I really can’t blame him.

  He still hasn’t told me the details of his abduction by the wood elves. He won’t open up to me the way that he used to. And I know I deserve this, given all the secrets I kept from him for the entire three years of our friendship. He’s right not to trust me. How can we truly be friends when I hid so much? How can he ever forgive me, after the magical realities of my stupid life dragged him into something so terrible that he can’t even bring himself to talk about it?

  Xan says to give him time. Even Aunt Paige says to give him time; like she really cares. But as each day passes I can feel him slipping away …

  I miss my best friend.

  One

  Donna sat up straight in her chair and tried not to look as though the last half-hour hadn’t already nailed up her coffin good and tight. Listening to Simon Gaunt drone on as he listed her “crimes” was almost as bad as being forced to listen to a lecture on Hermetic literature.

  Almost.

  Her fingers curled inside the long velvet gloves that she always wore. Ten years of wearing them to hide the truth of what she was, and yet all she’d ever really wanted was something normal to hold on to; a regular existence. Recently, however, she’d begun to accept the idea that you don’t always get what you want; making the best of things was often the only practical option. But that didn’t mean she had to like it.

  Her life seemed to have become an endless roller coaster of crazy, and it was really starting to piss her off.

  Everything she knew—or thought she knew—was based on a finely spun web of secrets and lies, yet what choice did she have other than to go along with it? At just seventeen, Donna wouldn’t truly be free of the Order’s influence for another year, as much as she wished things were different.

  Biting her lip, she looked around the makeshift courtroom; really, it was just an old dining room that had been converted into a meeting space some years ago. Dust motes glittered in the air and the sickly sweet scent of furniture polish made her feel vaguely sick. The room seemed to be full of crusty old men, apart from one young guy—a tall Asian dude wearing awesomely inappropriate Goth-style makeup. She couldn’t help feeling curious about him. And, of course, there was Paige Underwood, sitting quietly at the back looking pale and composed. But other than that, the representatives from the four alchemical Orders were for the most part over sixty, white, and male. Donna let her eyes rest for a moment on the one other woman in the room, a petite blonde who looked about the same age as her aunt and who seemed to know Goth Dude.

  Donna glanced at the gathered officials before meeting her aunt’s eyes and mouthing the question that had been bugging her ever since she’d watched each alchemist take his place: Where’s Maker?

  For one moment, it looked as though Aunt Paige was going to either ignore the question or pretend she couldn’t understand, but then she pointed to her watch as her lips formed the silent word Later.

  Later? What was that supposed to mean? Scanning the room again, Donna couldn’t help feeling worried about Maker’s absence from the crowd of alchemists. He’d been her only real source of support leading up to this hearing, and it was something she was intensely grateful for. So it seemed more than a little important that he should be here now, especially considering that he was—oh, you know, nothing major—supposed to act as her freaking defense.

  Of course, she wanted to count her aunt as on her side too, but, if she were brutally honest, Donna had to acknowledge that Paige hadn’t really spoken up for her at all. She hadn’t been supportive about the trial, either. It hurt to admit it, but Donna was nothing if not reali
stic: Aunt Paige was still furious with her for sneaking around behind her back.

  Simon was supposedly the Order of the Dragon’s official secretary—sort of like an administrator—although Donna’s recent discovery of his hidden laboratory led her to suspect that there was a lot more to him than she’d always believed. Only a full-fledged magus would have a lab like that, one that the Order had obviously gone to great pains to conceal. Which begged the question: if it was true that Simon was a magus, why would they want to cover up the fact that there was such a powerful magic-user living within their diminishing ranks? It didn’t make any sense.

  Pushing conspiracy theories out of her head, Donna was torn between thinking how ridiculous this whole thing was and feeling terrified about what an alchemist trial might involve. She’d cost the Order something valuable—maybe even priceless—and she’d also given up their secrets to a “commoner.” Not to mention befriended a guy with fey blood running through his veins.

  Oh, I am so screwed.

  She sighed and made an effort to tune back in to what was going on around her. Glancing at Quentin Frost, the Archmaster of the Order of the Dragon, she noticed that he looked tired—even more so than usual. He was old, it was true, but a new aura of exhaustion had settled around him like a thick gray cloud.

  Simon had switched to using a more impressive inflection in his delivery, which was vaguely entertaining, at least. It was like he was on stage delivering a Shakespearean soliloquy, hands linked loosely behind his back as he paced up and down the nasty, patterned brown carpet. He cut an unassuming figure—average height and skinny, with thinning brown hair and plain wire glasses that caught the light each time he moved. He seemed to be taking great pleasure in recounting every single one of Donna’s transgressions.

  When it came to the part about “fraternizing with the enemy,” she had to resist the urge to stand up and shout, I object! It probably wouldn’t go down too well, and this wasn’t a criminal trial—as Aunt Paige liked to remind her. A “hearing” was simply that: an opportunity for representatives from all the Orders to hear what Donna had done, and to decide on an appropriate punishment. Of course, according to the alchemists, Donna had betrayed them in just about every way imaginable. There wasn’t much room for compassionate consideration of her actual motives, though she could hardly be surprised.

  Two weeks ago, Donna had stolen a vial—containing the final drops of the supposedly mythical elixir of life—from the alchemists, to give to Aliette, the Wood Queen, in exchange for Navin’s life. But as they fled from the Ironwood, she’d broken the vial and thrown it as far as she could into the trees, beyond Aliette’s grasp. True, she had destroyed the only hope the wood elves had of lengthening their fading existence, but what the alchemists cared about was that she had destroyed the elixir of life itself.

  She’d spent the intervening days grounded by Aunt Paige and agonizing not about her impending trial, as her aunt no doubt expected, but about what sort of revenge the Wood Queen might be planning for the girl who’d tricked her. Aliette wasn’t the sort of creature to take betrayal lightly.

  Yet Donna felt fully justified in her actions. She’d had to save Navin, but she also couldn’t just give away everything the Order had fought for over the centuries. Even though she had doubts about the work some of the alchemists were doing—and whether or not she was truly on the side of “good,” as she’d always believed—she still couldn’t actually hand the Wood Queen the elixir, betraying the people who were, for better or worse, her family.

  Of course, it didn’t seem to matter how many times she tried to reassure everybody of this, and it hadn’t made a bit of difference when Maker spoke up on her behalf. In the eyes of the Order, she was a traitor—no matter how good the reasons had been for her actions.

  Donna suspected that the alchemists were all secretly more worried about the fact that she’d gotten involved with a half-fey guy, someone who already knew far too much about the conflict between the wood elves and the Order of the Dragon. As the child of a human woman and a father who had long ago returned to the faerie realm, Alexander Grayson’s halfblood status made him something even worse than a commoner in the eyes of the Order—since alchemists immediately classified anyone with even a hint of fey blood as dangerous.

  Every time she thought too much about it, Donna felt like her head might explode.

  Yet despite the sickening anger that had come with this realization, it also somewhat explained why Simon was so disapproving of her: not only was her best friend, Navin Sharma, just a commoner, but her maybe-sort-of-boyfriend was, by the very nature of his birth, their enemy.

  She rested her chin on her cupped hand and waited for a break in Simon’s oratory; she was dying to use the bathroom.

  Simon was now describing the schedule for the coming days. Donna fought the urge to roll her eyes; there was so much pointless ritual involved. It seemed that the members of this emergency meeting of the Council would stay at the Frost Estate until a final verdict about her punishment was reached. The matter was set to be resolved within the next few days.

  She knew she should be paying more attention, but it was difficult when her mind kept wandering. Back when she’d been allowed to attend Ironbridge High School (before getting kicked out for trashing school property and threatening a fellow student), her class had studied the horrific witch trials that took place in seventeenth century New England … perhaps the alchemists would take a page from Massachusetts history and dunk her in the local river to test for demonic influences. And knowing my luck, all the iron in my body will mean I’ll sink without a trace.

  Smiling ruefully at the gallows humor she would normally share with Nav, she realized that Simon might actually be winding things up. Donna almost breathed an audible sigh of relief, but just managed to check herself in time.

  But then he rubbed his hands together in a horribly familiar gesture, the sound of his dry palms suddenly too loud in the small room, and said, “Next, we will hear from the representatives from the Order of the Lion. If you could—”

  “Simon.” It was Quentin who spoke. His voice was low but implacable. Just speaking Simon’s name was enough; everyone knew, in that moment, who was Archmaster and who was the Order’s secretary.

  At least in name, Donna couldn’t help thinking.

  Quentin stood slowly and faced the room’s occupants: the Council of alchemists. Simon, the slimy bastard, smiled thinly and perched dutifully on his chair. Watching this unappealing man with his watering eyes that always seemed too big in his narrow face, Donna honestly wondered—and not for the first time—what on earth Quentin saw in him. She also found it hard to imagine Simon as potentially more powerful than the Archmaster himself. Maybe even more powerful than Maker. Not that she knew any of that for sure. It was just a growing suspicion, but she was becoming more aware of how listening to her intuition could be such an important thing. It had certainly gotten her out of more than one tight spot during the race to save Navin.

  The Archmaster took a few steps forward, his long crimson robe swirling behind him. “The Order of the Dragon speaks for all the alchemists gathered in this room. Are you in agreement?”

  A murmur passed around from alchemist to alchemist, as each representative nodded.

  Quentin gripped the carved wooden lectern in front of him, only the whites of his knuckles betraying the fact that he was holding on for support rather than just to make him look more official. He always reminded Donna of Santa Claus, and he sort of had the right personality to go with the image. He had never been anything but kind to her, and she had fond memories of him reading to her while she was recovering from the magical operations that had created her tattoos and saved her arms and hands. Quentin had been ill for several months last winter, and he hadn’t been quite the same since—he’d seemed to age several years in the space of weeks, and the alchemists had feared for his life. Donna remembered how worried Aunt Paige had been, and there had even been talk of choosing a new
leader in case the worst happened.

  But now the Archmaster cleared his throat authoritatively and let his blue eyes meet Donna’s for a moment. She felt her spine automatically straighten, and tried desperately to detect something—some sign of hope or forgiveness—but then his gaze swept past her, over the rest of the gathering.

  “As Archmaster of the Dragon alchemists, and as the duly appointed spokesperson of this Council assembled here today, it is my duty to guide us toward a verdict in the matter of Donna Underwood’s recent actions. This judgment will be reached by the representatives from the Orders of the Dragon, Crow, Lion, and Rose.”

  Get on with it, Donna thought, wishing she could be anywhere but here. She noticed a middle-aged man from the Order of the Rose tapping continually on a computer keyboard, only lifting his head when there was a pause in the proceedings. The Rose alchemists were glorified record-keepers, in Donna’s opinion, but all the other alchemists seemed to hold them in high regard.

  Her cheeks flushed as Quentin talked briefly about the loss of the elixir and what that could mean for all four Orders. She tapped her foot and wondered if her blacksequinned sneakers could be magicked to work the same way as Dorothy’s ruby slippers. Strangely, just as she was wondering that, a warm feeling flooded her chest and her stomach tightened in an unfamiliar way. The tips of her fingers tingled and her wrists began to ache.

  Donna shook her hands and tried to will the odd sensation away just as Quentin’s even tones reached her again. Sometimes her tattoos did pull some weird crap, but now wasn’t a good time for them to start acting up.